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Album Review: Brand New's "Daisy",
​or, I think I want to write you a love letter but I've forgotten your name
​(Track 5, You Stole, erasure)

Last night  they said  the fire  had spread 

And we  said our prayers
And now  the flames are burning me in my bed,
But  just don't care
We all go to  sleep  in the same place

n the morning 
hope  that  we're  all  the same
Just sit around like  broke down cars  in the lot

Waiting for repairs
There you go
There it goes...
 I wish  that  I was  as  good  as you 
Caring and trusting
And I 
wish that my  condition was  new  but I'm old and  rusting
So we just hurry up only to  wait
Add to the list of all the places we hate
And I pretend like  I  got something to say
But I've got  no
       wait  no
this is    not         our song
        let me        say what    I need to                say​
no  you   don't get to tell me what I said
now       I get to say what I said
                said           nothing and still you
                                        stole away
      these words won't be put into my mouth again.
two years since silent mutiny i've been spinning wheel,
loose rudder     half-mast tribute      21-gun salute
of blanks       and no, not today. today, no, no,
won't pretend i'm still here singing without you, won't
smile grateful for the time we had. fuck the time we had.


   once, years ago, i saw a bull break free from a slaughterhouse.
he took on two trucks on main street, spitting fire and snot.
it's taken me this long to try to love myself the way
i loved that bull, all final fight and running, the way
he looked into my eyes like we had something
to say to each other right before they shot him dead
on the golf course. today i hear it:

        they haven't killed us yet, boy.
       they can't kill us         'til they kill us.

If she should know anything, it is

that I'd live here,
on this plane above
whatever's halfway
between Portland
and Minneapolis—

not that I can't
figure that out,
look at a map,
check a screen
to see where we are,
what's on the news,
who won the games,
how warm it is—

it's just that here
is her hand
on my head,
my eyes closed,
her lungs lifting up
my everything
and catching it
on the way down

every time.

Lewis Mundt is a writer, performer, and producer living in Minneapolis. His work has been published by Paper Darts, Revolver, and The Rumpus, among others, and his debut collection The God of the Whole Animal was released in 2015. You can find him every month as the producer and host of the New Sh!t Show Minneapolis and at
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